


Could you take my picture? 'Cause I won't remember.

by heittskomm



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Deleted Scene, Ian's POV, M/M, Mickey's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:23:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heittskomm/pseuds/heittskomm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chapter 1: Ian flips through one of Mickey's gun mags when he finds a picture of himself.<br/>Chapter 2: Mickey finds something surprising in the back pocket of Ian's jeans.</p><p>Brief scenes taking place between 4.11 and 4.12.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ian jolted awake and checked his watch. 10:03 PM. "Oh shit."

His shift at the Fairy Tail was about to start in half an hour and he had to haul his ass all the way up to Boystown. Ian started to rub the sleep out of his eyes when he remembered where he was and smiled. It was dark in the room but he could just make out the edges of one of Mickey's smudged drawings on the wall. He chuckled a little when he realized he'd pushed his sleeping boyfriend all the way to the edge of the bed. They had fallen asleep together like that, after sex, with their bodies pressed and Ian's arms draped over Mickey's. It's probably an understatement to say Ian liked to feel close to the guy he loved. Well, he always liked to. But now he could.  

Ian was washing up in the bathroom when he noticed a copy of _Concealed Carry | Handguns_  magazine out of place on the floor. Ian knew Mickey kept a stack of them by the toilet. Out of curiosity he picked it up and flipped through this so-called "Self-Defense Buyer's Guide," noting the irony of Mickey's determined hobby when guns have gotten him in nothing but trouble over the years. To his surprise, his eyes soon landed on a familiar face. His own. There, tucked between a spread on "Exotic Holsters" was a photograph of himself.

Not a bad photo, he might add. He had taken that photo one day hanging out with Mandy. She had made him take it. "It’s gonna look good. I’m really tired of seeing your army porn shit on Facebook. Bald eagles and tanks. it’s getting old."

 _What the hell is this doing here?_   The picture in his hand was well-worn and wrinkled, almost deliberately, like someone made it a habit of taking it out and holding it—he could see where a thumbnail had dug into his shoulder on the left corner of the picture.  

Then it clicked. _Mickey had this?_

Ian smiled so wide it kind of hurt his cheeks. He brushed his own fingers over the photo, imagining Mickey having done the same while they were apart. He got a tight and floaty feeling in his stomach that made his heart race, a recurring feeling that hasn't really stopped since they got together. 

It was an old-fashioned gesture, this—to keep a photograph, these days. As if Ian had gone to war or something. Picture that: Mickey Milkovich, army wife. 

Ian was giddy. Sure, it was the kind of cheesy romantic move that normally one wouldn't pin on Mickey. But why not. Mickey was never one to do things halfway. The night at the Alibi proved that. The thought of confronting his favorite neighborhood thug with his dirty little secret sent a rush of blood to Ian's head. And well, his dick.  _Oh, this is too good. I'm not gonna let him live this down..._   

Ian looked back at the photo. He ran his other hand through his hair. Back then he'd had that standard-issued army buzz cut. He was more buff, too, back when he still had something to prove. No, he had nothing left to prove to the army now. And West Point? Well how can you miss something you never had a shot at? Growing older is about getting used to things ending and to feel less painful about it. It give you a feeling of age than regret. But for a second Ian let himself feel sad. He gave in. Just for a second. 

Mickey was still asleep when Ian came back to the room, photograph in hand, ready to pounce on his unsuspecting boyfriend. What would a blushing Mickey look like? He wondered, leaning against door frame of the room. Ian paused. He quite liked the look of Mickey sleeping peacefully in bed. He tucked the photo in his back pocket to hold up his fingers and frame a shot of Mickey’s face. He looked so young. 

Ian decided to get out his phone to take a picture of him for real.

 **CLICK.**  "Shit." _Forgot to turn off the sound..._ Mickey stirred. 

"Yo, paparazzi," Mickey called out from the bed, glancing at the clock. "Don't you have some place you gotta be right now?" 

"Yeah I'm just leaving."

"How are your ribs?" 

"Actually the bruises make my tattoo look pretty bad ass."

Mickey scoffed. "You didn't answer the question." 

Ian walked to the bed and crouched down over Mickey's face. "They're fine. I took a painkiller and I'll try not to get too adventurous with my stripping tonight. Go back to sleep. Aren't you tired from wrangling dead-eyed Russian whores all day?

“Hey, pimpin' aint’ easy," Mickey snapped back, flashing him a good ol' Milkovich crooked smile.

Ian leaned over to kiss him. Practicing restraint for sake of time, he gave him a quick peck that reminded him of their first kiss. 

"Oh fuck it." Ian grabbed Mickey's face back for a longer kiss. A real kiss. 

"Alright, now get the fuck outta here."

Satisfied for now, Ian got up and turned to leave. He felt the photograph in his back pocket. _Another day._  

“See you in the morning.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Mickey's turn to be surprised.

Mickey couldn't put his finger on it, but something weird was going on with Ian.

He'd see it out of the corner of his eye: Ian staring at him with a puckish glint. Like the cat who swallowed the canary.

They’d be standing around in the kitchen at breakfast and he’d feel Ian’s eyes on him from across the room. It made Mickey a little self conscious. Which pissed him off a lot.

“What?” Mickey would say abruptly.  
“Nothing.” Ian would reply, looking down and shrugging it off, and go back to chewing his cereal. But then he’d turn around and stare at Mickey again with that goofy smirk.

Mickey could see something else in his face, too, besides that annoying simper—an undeniable warmness that bored into him with such intensity he couldn’t never hold the gaze too long.

He sighed, feeling bothered enough to press it further this particular morning.

“Is there food on my face?

“What?”

Mickey rolled his eyes and repeated himself slowly, stretching out a few sounds obnoxiously on purpose.

“Is. Theeey-ere. Foo-ood. On my face.”

“No.” Ian replied, laughing.

“Then what the fuck you keep looking at?!” Mickey snapped, maybe a little too harshly but he couldn’t help it.

Ian raised his eyebrows at this, but took it in stride. “Oh! Right” Ian said, grinning. “Actually you have something right there…” putting his bowl down, walking over to Mickey and pointing at something on his chest. Mickey fell for it and looked down, only to be flicked in the face with Ian’s index finger.

“Ow! fuck!”

“Hahaha, sorry! It wasn’t that hard, wasn’t it?”

Mickey took a labored blink and then pushed Ian against the fridge, careful to avoid the side he knew had the bruised ribs.

“Seriously, you’re not going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Seriously, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look, is this because of that night… Because I'm over it. Can you get over it? I told you to stop being so weird.”

“What, you mean, you coming out as a big ol' 'mo?" Ian began to tease. "And telling the world you love to... love to suck my di—" Ian couldn't even finish the sentence without bursting into laughter. 

"WOW." Mickey felt hot in his cheeks and let out a mirthless, mocking laugh in return. "I wouldn’t go so far as calling all those drunken bums ‘the world’. And shut the fuck up, you know what I mean.”

Since the night at the Alibi, Ian hadn't been shy about showing his appreciation. He'd always be _touching_  Mickey. More than the kissing and the fucking and the spooning. It was the little things. An elbow resting on the shoulder while talking. A hand on the back while standing. An arm graze crossing each other in the hallway. He spoiled him.

But after coming out in that spectacular way, Mickey guessed he had it coming. So he indulged Ian, maybe indulged himself a little too. Certainly, showing affection didn't come naturally to Mickey; he sometimes still felt like an alien robot learning how to act out rehearsed expressions. But he had opened the door for it.

Ian could see Mickey was getting embarrassed, and took the opportunity to tickle his sides to get out of the grip.

“You’re such a kid sometimes.” Mickey said, shaking his head.  
  
“Is it obvious?” Ian replied, kissing him on the forehead. “Hey, I’m borrowing one of your shirts. Gonna go for a quick run down the block.”  
  
“Not bored of that yet, huh?”  
  
“Never. It just feels so good.”

After Ian rushed out, Mickey walked back into his room and looked at the corner where Ian left all his dirty clothing. Between the stripping in Boystown and the 8-mile runs, Ian had accumulated an impressive pile. Mickey grabbed a trash bag and started shoving them inside. Somebody had to do the laundry. They’re not fuckin’ animals.

Mickey started going through all the pockets of Ian's clothes before putting them into the washer. A few bills here, some change there. Some business cards, too. He scowled at the sight of them before ripping them up and throwing them out in the trash. Nasty old fucks. Ian still had trouble seeing through the true intentions of the guys who approached him at the club.

Reaching into the back pocket of a pair of Ian’s jeans, he felt something else. A folded up piece of paper. No, not paper. It was a thicker stock. Smoother.  
He took it out and held it in his hand, and felt an odd sense of deja vu. It looked familiar. It smelled familiar. Like his cigarettes.

_…What the fuck?_

His head reacted more quickly than his hands could follow. He felt his heart jumping into his throat as he unfolded the picture to reveal Ian’s smiling face looking up at him.

That picture. _The_ picture. The reason he couldn’t sleep some nights those weeks ago. The reason he wanted to give up. The reason he held on anyway. The reason the bathroom mirror is a fun house nightmare right now.

_So that's why._

 He went red in the face. His nostrils went flaring, and his jaw went locked, agape.

_That. Motherfucker._

Mickey’s first instinct was that he wanted to punch Ian in the face. This was an invasion of his fuckin’ privacy. Then he panicked. How was he going to explain this? The fact was he had stolen the photograph from Mandy's room. (If Mandy knew it was missing, she didn’t acknowledge it.) Okay, so then it was Mandy's all along, if Ian asks. Done. When he calmed, Mickey still felt like he wanted to punch Ian in the face. But then he got a better idea. He lit up a cigarette and chuckled with genuine amusement for once. Now he had that puckish glint. Now he just had to wait. 

“How was the run?” Mickey asked nonchalantly as Ian came through the door.

“Awesome! It was so beautiful out.” he said as he ran into Mickey's room to change. Seconds later he came out with a distressed look.

“Mickey, did you wash my clothes??!”

“Uh, yeah. Well someone fuckin' had to.”

Ian flew over to the washing machine and started pulling out clothes that were still soaked. He was getting water everywhere.

“Woah, there." There was something about that look of wild concentration on Ian's face that made Mickey uneasy. His game was going to be over faster than he thought. He went to retrieve the photo from the cupboard where he had hidden it.

“Hey, you looking for this?” waving the photo in his hand as he shouted over. 

Ian turned around and squinted his eyes in confusion. Then widened them in understanding. He dropped the clothes back into the wash and got up.

“What’s that?” He crossed his arms and feigned ignorance. 

 _Oh is this how you wanna play?_  

"Oh never mind."  Mickey replied and started to put the picture into his pocket.

"Wait!" Ian sprang up. "Can I see it?” 

“No, it's mine.”  
  
“It's my face!”  
  
“It's my picture.”

Both had played their hands too early. And now a silence hung in the air awkwardly while each waited for the other's next move. 

Ian broke first. 

“So why'd you have it, huh?"  He, of course, had a pretty good idea of the answer but he wanted to hear it anyway.

And Mickey knew he did. _The prick_.  "Why do you think?" 

Ian smiled. And then he leapt forward and snatched the picture from Mickey's hand. 

“The fuc—Give it back!”

“No, I get it. I look pretty good in this photo, don't I?” Ian goaded, as he swatted away Mickey's hands reaching for the picture. 

 "You've looked better."

Touché. "I don't know, I was just thinking yo—" Ian was suddenly interrupted by a bizarre, wet sensation.

Mickey licked his neck.

With Ian momentarily disarmed, Mickey promptly grabbed back the picture, slipped it into his back pocket, and put his mouth on Ian’s before the latter had a chance to retaliate.

 

—

 Afterwards, they lay together on that one side of the bed, with Ian's face tucked snug behind Mickey's neck. They stayed there like that, for hours it seemed. Ian was so quiet. Mickey felt relieved. Finally—some peace. It was a wonder.

Mickey brushed his thumb across the mess of freckles on Ian's arm that was wrapped around his. _It'll get too hot in the summer to do this_ , Mickey caught himself thinking.  _Jesus. you're thinking that far?_ Future planning was not Mickey's forte. Life was a hustle. He took it one day at a time. But, maybe, for once he could see a little further into the distance. He could see Ian there.

**Author's Note:**

> Well. Here it is. My first born.
> 
> Find me at heittskomm.tumblr.com, although I mostly do pedantic meta posts. I'd like to write more fics but I need a lot of pushing. And alcohol. If you have a specific hole you want me to fill, talk to me and I'll see it's worth its weight in wine.


End file.
